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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24846676">Standard Protocol, and Other Workplace Hazards</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideyseek/pseuds/hideyseek'>hideyseek</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(just a little), Banter, Co-workers, Elevators, Emails, First Dates, Food, Friendship, Human Resources, Humor, James Bond Being James Bond, James Bond Takes Care of Q, Loneliness, M/M, Mission Reports, Nonbinary Character, Q Branch, Q Has a Crush, Q is a Brat, Snarky Q, Tea, The Great British Bake Off References, Workplace, Workplace Relationship, Yearning, also as a plot device, as a plot device, because this is about q being without a job, friends egging friends into being better people, in the breakroom, listen okay i have a LOT of feelings about what the realities of q's job are, unemployment, unfortunately they were not realized in this</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:34:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24846676</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideyseek/pseuds/hideyseek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Q gets into an argument (with HR), and gets out of his head (about Bond), and gets by. </p><p>Or: MI6 finally gets to the paperwork around Q's emergency promotion.<br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Moneypenny &amp; Q, James Bond/Q</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>MI6 Cafe MiniBang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Standard Protocol, and Other Workplace Hazards</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for the MI6 Cafe 2020 Minibang (and <i>incredibly</i> loosely based on my prompt: 'crumbs')! with some <i>delightfully</i> heartwarming <a href="https://66.media.tumblr.com/3ebbe7b0ff23c5590f909029573d38e6/1a691215fe5e23ce-e0/s2048x3072/cf49fc9f0487b338550e2fc68a5676a3d2fa418d.jpg">art</a> from the most excellent <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_of_sharp_things/pseuds/storm_of_sharp_things">storm</a>! (also available in its full glory at the end of this work)</p><p> <b>acknowledgements:</b></p><p>i'm incredibly grateful to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingsofaretiredunicorn/pseuds/musingsofaretiredunicorn">@musingsofaretiredunicorn</a> and D for beta-ing. to musings: thanks for mocking me politely when i whined about this being a piece of dumpster fire in a google doc. to D: thanks for sitting with me for literal hours on zoom and telling me at the end of it all that i should be proud of myself for accomplishing this. i, and also this work, would be much worse off without you two.</p><p>enormously heartfelt thanks to stormy, for being so immediately and consistently encouraging and insistent about me taking my time on this project, even before we really knew each other at all. i'm so glad for your particular talent in identifying and remarking on the most emotionally resonant moments in the early drafts -- without it, i would have killed the wrong darlings in the subsequent edits.</p><p>a big thank you also to the folks in the #writing_and_art_channel in inceptionslack: this isn't that fandom, but sprinting with everyone got me a hell of a lot farther than i would have managed alone. &lt;3</p><p>i have a <i>lot</i> of thoughts about the coming-into-existence of this fic during quarantine, available at the end of this fic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Sunday, 11:49pm </em>
</p><p>It’s drizzling outside, rain splattering miserably against the windows of Q’s living room. He’s got a mostly-empty package of Twiglets open on the coffee table and a month of his old mission transcripts downloaded and decrypted on his tablet. Hardly proper for a three-month-old Quartermaster, perhaps, but he isn’t Q again until Monday morning. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><b>TRANSCRIPT OF MISSION NO. </b> <b>23455312-007</b><b>, LOCATION: [REDACTED], PAGE 5 of 23</b></p>
  <p><b>007:</b> Jesus Christ. Goddamn <em> fuck. </em> Fuck! </p>
  <p><b>Control:</b> Language, Bond. Think of the poor interns taking down these transcripts. And the bystanders. I’ll thank you to [garble] until you're in public, Bond. </p>
  <p><b>007:</b> I don’t believe I could care <em> less </em>about the interns or the public.</p>
  <p><b>Control</b> : [typing sounds] Aw, Are you upset it’s 36 C and muggy there? </p>
  <p><b>007: </b> Are you joking, Q? Of course I’m upset — I’ve never been more uncomfortable, how does the air manage to be both hot <em> and </em> wet! [garble] hell <em> or </em> high water, isn’t that how it’s supposed to go?</p>
</blockquote><p>Q laughs out loud in his empty apartment. He’d forgotten Bond had said that, during the Georgia mission. <em> Hell or high water</em>, indeed. </p><p>Bond had run six blocks in the blazing mid-afternoon to a Hilton, Q hunched over his monitors in the TSS control room flipping frantically through CCTV screens to track him though the Atlanta streets in his sweat-stained linen shirt, only for Bond to finally put his earpiece back in and inform Q that, while this was the right hotel chain, the mark was in Georgia the <em> country</em>. </p><p>Q had used up six favors to get Bond on the next plane out, and the man hadn’t even had the <em> decency </em> to bring his fucking gun back in one piece. </p><p>Q’s still looking forward to being back at work, though. There’s nothing quite like the atmosphere of the TSS labs and workrooms to settle him, to remind him that he does something he loves, something that matters.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p>
  <em> Monday, 8:16am </em>
</p><p>“Q!” shouts Eve from across the main lobby, clicking her way toward him in those devastating Louboutins. “Fancy seeing you here. Finally back at work, are you?”</p><p>“God yes,” says Q. “I can’t tell you how I’ve missed everything about this place. Head Office can take their post-promotion administrative leave and <em> shove it</em>.” </p><p>“Really, <em> everything</em>?” The takeaway coffee cup in Eve’s hand shakes as she laughs. “Even Bond?”</p><p>Q bites down on <em> Especially Bond,</em> and says instead, “I can only hope he’s learned some respect for his equipment in my absence.”</p><p>This, on his way back upstairs to the TSS workroom, turns into Q running into R and getting an informal, more-than-slightly frustrated update on overnight mission happenings from them. </p><p>Apparently, 007 had stopped by the TSS intake desk like the world’s best-dressed cat, leaving a pile of charred bits of metal and plastic that did not have<em> remotely </em> the same mass as the button radio and gun he’d been sent off with. It’s incredible, really, how much Q dislikes 007 when he’s reminded that the man isn’t just the agent who gives TSS an excuse to develop completely ridiculous gadgetry.</p><p>And somehow that conversation turns into Eve dragging him back downstairs to the mess for an early lunch in the corner booth to catch up on all the office gossip she doesn’t want documented in their texts. Q lets himself be swept up in the enveloping, overwhelming rhythm of working at Vauxhall.</p><p>So Q’s already juggling about fourteen things by the time he’s headed into his office — Finance wants him to look over this month’s development budget again, as if <em> that’ll </em> keep R&amp;D from overshooting it, he’s got to call an operations meeting to reiterate password management protocols because apparently the <em> last </em> five weren’t enough, he should probably swing by Control later this afternoon to see how the new engineers are doing, which’ll inevitably turn into at <em> least </em> an hour of him problem-solving on the fly, <em> plus </em> he’d forgotten to replace his spare work-appropriate shirt in his locker after he spilled tea on himself last month and — Q presses his hand against the palm scanner without looking, steps forward instinctively to shove inside with his shoulder, and <em> smacks </em>into the door.  </p><p>“Fuck!” yelps Q, stumbling back. “What the hell?” </p><p>He looks up and there’s a baby blue interdepartmental memo taped to his personal office mailbox. <em> Office Reassignment Notice</em>, it says in bolded Arial, with fine print that reads: <em> Please make sure to report any employment concerns to your friends and allies in Human Resources on Level 1! </em></p><p>That's the last fucking straw. Q dodges the leaving-early queue bunched up by the lobby elevators in an attempt to catch someone at HR before they left for the afternoon and sprints his way up six flights of stairs — only to find that the HR office was closed on Mondays and didn’t open until <em> noon </em>on Tuesday. </p><p>Q dashes off a note in his best go-to-hell handwriting: <em> Good day, </em> allies. <em> I seem to have been barred from my workspace at my current place of work. I would call this an employment concern, as an understatement. What can we do about this? - Q.  </em></p><p>Other people might have more interesting things to do with their lives than their jobs, but Q certainly doesn’t and HR should recognize that.</p><p> </p><p>— </p><p>
  <em> Tuesday, 12:02pm </em>
</p><p>Some days, Q doubts his career choice, but standing in the doorway to the HR lobby, he can’t help but think that at least his workspace has points for character. Bits of solder stuck to the breakroom table alongside half-drunk cups of various teas is infinitely better than HR, with its wilting potted ferns and the kind of squishy-from-overuse chairs Q’s familiar with from hospital waiting rooms.</p><p>“Can I help you with anything, sir?” interrupts the receptionist. His name tag reads <em> ROB</em>, and he’s chewing gum the same sharp white as his teeth.</p><p>“Um,” says Q, wrong-footed in the face of this type of intensely polished work persona. As a rule, Q vastly prefers the brand of professionalism that involves caring so much you can joke about not caring at all. “I left a sticky note yesterday on this desk, I don’t suppose you got it?” </p><p>“Name, please, sir?” asks Rob, typing without looking at him. He’s wearing a tie, Q notes. The <em> agents </em> don’t even wear ties at the office.</p><p>“Quartermaster, please,” says Q. “Uh, Q.” Maybe he’d been too rude, in his note. Rob’s brand of paper-thin civility stretched over a core of <em> fucking hell I hate my job </em> makes him nervous.</p><p>“Oh,” says Rob in an unidentifiable tone, and Q would swear he’s smiling. “It looks like there was a mistake in the database somehow, sir. Unfortunately, there’s no office available for you to use right now.” </p><p>“Unfortunately?” Q repeats. </p><p>“Is there,” Q starts, and he knows he’s doing the thing with his neck that happens whenever he’s being belligerent, but he’s <em> being belligerent</em>, for fuck’s sake. “Is there some reason I can’t just go back to my old office? The memo’s just taped on, I can take it off by myself. It’s not like the room’s <em> disappeared</em>.”</p><p>“Well,” says Rob, with a particular jut to his chin that makes Q want to scream. “You see, sir, your access codes don’t work on that door anymore now that you’ve been promoted, and all your things were boxed up in temporary holding during your recent administrative leave. Someone will move it all for you, of course, once we know where you’re going.” </p><p>His things are all in <em> temporary holding</em>? </p><p>Rob leans forward over the counter. “Also, sir, let me just say,” he adds helpfully, “that it would be.. ah, <em>extremely</em> <em>unseemly</em> for someone working in upper-level operations management to still have a Level 2 office. There’s a hierarchy here at MI6 for very good reason.”</p><p>“I mean,” says Q, floundering. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re MI6<em>, </em> not <em> Parliament</em>. Plus, I’m hardly ever <em> in </em> my off—”</p><p>“Friendly reminder, <em> sir</em>,” says Rob, like that’s the logical next phrase in this conversation, “that we still work for the British government, and therefore we do represent the interests and values of this great nation.” He tugs briefly at his lapels and repeats, “Returning to your Level 2 office just wouldn’t be <em> proper</em>.”</p><p>Rob glares at him. Q glares right back. In his old position, he’d had to work in development, but at least he’d never had to deal with <em> HR. </em></p><p>At least he can just work in the TSS break room on Level 2 and still get to see the other technical staff, Q supposes. It’ll suck, not having anywhere to retreat to, but as long as admin stuff can happen in the break room, he can take advantage of his access to Mission Con— </p><p>“Also,” Rob interrupts, “I should warn you, sir. While we handle this office changeover, you won’t have access to any secure building locations, or be given any formal assignments. It’ll be just common spaces for now, I’m afraid.” He executes a delicate laugh. “You might as well go home, enjoy some extra vacation time while you still can.”</p><p>Which means Q is going to be in Vauxhall until he gets his fucking office back, out of spite. </p><p>“Thanks,” says Q tightly.</p><p>“No, thank <em> you, </em> sir,” says Rob, but Q is already leaving before he’s driven to a Bond-esque cursing fit in public. </p><p> </p><p>— </p><p>
  <em> Tuesday, 12:16pm </em>
</p><p>Of course, Q walks out of the HR lobby directly <em> into </em>James Bond.</p><p>Here’s the thing. </p><p><em> Bond </em> is a voice in Q’s comms that regularly provides opportunities for Q to be snarky on the job and generally improves Q’s quality of life. <em> 007 </em> is an agent with a body, the most incomprehensible mission reports Q has ever backread, and a complete inability to give his equipment back the way it was issued.</p><p>“007,” greets Q awkwardly, stumbling backward from the collision and finding himself unable to. Bond’s hands are warm on his biceps, and he’s looking directly at Q in a way that Q finds uncomfortably appealing. He can <em> feel </em> his own ears flushing.</p><p>“Quartermaster,” says Bond, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks and standing there, instead of letting Q flee to the elevators in peace. “Good to see you’re back.” </p><p>“For a certain value of <em> back</em>,” says Q, not quite keeping the resentment from his voice. He has a gift for making small talk... <em> interesting</em>, Eve has always said.</p><p>“Is that so?” says Bond, the nosy bastard. </p><p>Q supposes he can’t quite help it, it really <em> is </em> the man’s whole job description. But Q can’t figure out how to gracefully escape answering, so he says, “Yeah, my belongings have been <em> promoted </em> into temporary storage.” He grimaces and adjusts his glasses. “No more hiding from the masses in my little office, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Right,” says Bond, “no more office. Of course.” He looks a little bit like he’s been slapped. Q knows, because he’s seen Bond get slapped on camera, and he watches the clip sometimes when he’s really upset. But it’s mostly Bond’s fault anyway, so it’s only fair.</p><p> </p><p>— </p><p>
  <em> Wednesday, 4:17pm </em>
</p><p>“Right,” says Eve, dropping into a chair and popping the lid off her boxed salad. “Why are we eating lunch in the TSS break room instead of downstairs in the mess? Bond’s back from his mission, you know, the beautiful people are back for us to to ogle and gossip about again.”</p><p>“Those are our... respected colleagues,” Q points out, respectfully. “And unfortunately, yes, I’m aware he’s back.” <em> Bond’s hands warm on his bice— </em>Q coughs and changes tack. “He’s <em> decimated </em> the new line of button cameras already, I’m told,” Q complains. “Which is kind of good, I’d rather know than not, but I’d just like something to last him a whole mission. I know I’m not supposed to blame the users, but this just doesn’t <em> happen </em>with the other 00 agents.”</p><p>“Uh-huh,” says Eve, mouth full of salad.</p><p>“Anyway, if we eat in the mess,” Q adds, “Bethesda at the hot foods section will pinch my cheeks and ask me if I had a nice vacation, and then she’ll want to know all about what I’m working on at the moment.”</p><p>“Right, that’s always fun to watch. It’s bad, how?”</p><p>“I had a <em> terrible </em> vacation,” Q snaps. “The best part was rereading old mission reports on my couch and eating Twiglets! Besides, I’m not developing <em> anything </em> because I’m not allowed to, Beth’s grandkid is going to be <em> so </em> bored!” </p><p>“Oh, ha,” says Eve, entirely unsympathetically. “You mean like the mission where the Communications people got Georgia the country and Georgia the state mixed up in their intercepts, and you had to beg your ex-lover at the TSA to let Bond and his gun on a plane?” She stabs a cherry tomato with her fork and it splurts all over her arugula. “What was his name again? <em> Billy</em>?”</p><p>“It’s <em> Jonathan</em>,” says Q reproachfully. “And don’t call him my <em> ex-lover</em>, that’s fucking weird.”</p><p>“Eat your sandwich, Q,” Eve says, flapping a hand at him. “It’s getting cold.”</p><p>“You got me this ham and Swiss <em>from </em>the cold meats and deli section,” Q points, but he takes a bite. “Please note,” he says through the mouthful, “this doesn’t make you the boss of me, Moneypants.” He swipes briefly at the crumbs that fall onto his sweater</p><p>“Well, you aren’t the boss of <em> anybody </em> , right now,” says Eve in a friendly kind of way. “So if I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut. Even though you do have Bond <em> completely </em> whipped.”  </p><p>“I do <em>not</em> have him <em>whipped</em>,” Q protests. “I just <em>get </em>him! Which— which denotatively means: <em>We are efficient colleagues</em>, and has the connotation of: <em>Nothing is happening between us</em> <em>except our work.</em>” </p><p>“Whatever,” says Eve, scraping her fork against the grooves of the salad box to get at the last bit of dressing. “Methinks the quartermaster doth protest too much.” She waggles her eyebrows at him. “Anyway, I’ve a meeting six minutes ago, I’ve got to run.” </p><p>“That’s <em> fine,</em>” Q shouts after her. “I’m having a wonderful time sitting alone in this break room, with no means of accessing the gainful employment that brings my life purpose. I’m having a <em> lovely </em>time by myself, I’m not bored at all!”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p>
  <em> Thursday, 2:16pm </em>
</p><p>It’s strange, really, existing in this kind of jobless limbo in the middle of one of the most classified buildings in England. </p><p>It’s a lonely thing to be in the breakroom with all the other technicians and engineers bustling through for snacks or coffee, only sometimes greeted with a cursory <em> how are you? </em> or <em> hello</em>. Q’s getting used to it. Slowly. Painfully. But he’s getting used to it.</p><p>So when Bond’s head appears above Q’s laptop screen, Q looks up in surprise and splutters on his last mouthful of tea on principle. Half surprised, half relieved to have the company. </p><p>“Why are you here?” Q demands. </p><p>Bond stops cold mid-approach, the top of his shoulder in line with the fridge, his hip and his … other things centered in Q’s vision. </p><p>Bond tilts his head. His mouth opens, and then closes, and then opens again for him to say, “...tea.” </p><p>Right. James Bond, of course, is known for drinking <em> tea</em>. </p><p>Bond squints a little at Q, like he doesn’t quite believe himself either.</p><p>Q looks away, fixes his eyes on the sanctuary of his laptop screensaver. “Don’t let me stop you.” He can hear the rustle of clothing as Bond passes him, the momentary gust of wind in his wake. </p><p>Q always forgets how fucking tall Bond is, the sheer <em> presence </em> of him. Bond had moved with an unusual awkwardness, though. Maybe he didn’t get enough sleep. Surely even 00 agents are susceptible to the usual things: fast bullets, warm weather, insomnia. </p><p>“I really just wanted tea,” Bond insists, when he’s halted in front of the counter behind Q. Q can see Bond's reflection on his laptop screen, staring at the sink and the worn communal sponge beside it like he’s sizing them up. </p><p>But Q isn’t Bethesda’s favorite because he’s rude. “Kettle’s on the counter to your left, there, already plugged in, and the tea’s in the drawer under the microwave,” he says, and goes back to staring resolutely at the MI6 logo bouncing around his screen. If he looks up at the agent making tea in the breakroom again, he might lose his mind. </p><p>“Just don’t drink any of the Irish breakfast,” Q adds, “it’s Moneypenny’s favorite.” </p><p>On Q's screen, Bond shakes himself until his posture changes and he looks less like a flustered hawk and more like the kind of person with enough control over his limbs to actually pass MI6’s physical exams before going back into the field. “Cheers,” he says.</p><p>Q thumbs over his laptop trackpad, and Bond’s reflection disappears. Q can still hear the quiet shuffle of Bond moving around behind him. The rush of the tap as he fills the kettle, the click as the water starts.</p><p>Bond speaks up then, conversationally, like this is the kind of situation he finds himself in regularly. “I <em> am </em> sorry to impose, Q, but the downstairs mess only had the awful stuff. Off-brand Gunpowder Green isn’t really <em> supposed </em> to taste like gunpowder, I think.”</p><p>Q smiles involuntarily at his empty inbox. He goes to drink from his tea to hide it, but the mug is empty. </p><p>Then Bond says, “I can’t seem to find the cups?” and the tone is so familiar and out of place that Q almost instinctively says, <em> Tell me what you’re looking at, Bond</em>, before he fucking remembers himself and says instead, “Orange cupboard on your left, 007. Close it when you’re done, ta.”</p><p>The kettle clicks off, and the subsequent sounds of Bond moving behind him could really only be described as <em> bustling</em>. Staring at his laptop with Bond talking to him out of sight, Q could almost pretend it’s just a mission. Though certainly the oddest mission they’ve weathered together.</p><p>Behind him, Bond grunts and says, “Is there any honey at all in this place? Is all you’ve got <em>white</em> <em>sugar</em>? What kind of savagery is this?” </p><p>“Cupboard above the sink, maybe. Or, the one to the left,” says Q without looking up. He huffs out a breath of a laugh, “Good luck prying it out of the jar there.” </p><p>A bang and the most unexpected rueful chuckle. “Is this door <em> welded </em>shut?” Bond demands. </p><p>“Why don’t you put your back into it,” Q teases, nearly twitching with the familiarity of it all. “Sorry, Bond. It’s your other left, my left.” A soft sound of amused assent, then the gentle click of a cupboard closing, then silence — except for the careful gurgle of hot water being poured, and the familiar metal-against-ceramic sound of tea being stirred.</p><p>When a mug <em> clacks </em>down on the table next to him, Q frowns in surprise and looks up. “Wh—”</p><p>“I saw yours was empty,” Bond explains. “It’s the right kind of tea, Q, I checked the tag.”  </p><p>It’s oddly thoughtful, unlike anything Q’s ever seen from the man before. </p><p>“Quartermasters should take better care to stay caffeinated while they’re out of work,” says Bond. “To, uh, keep their spirits up.” </p><p>In a word, Q is shocked. In two words, Q is unexpectedly touched. </p><p>He looks up at Bond and makes a valiant attempt at a casual smile and says, “Thank you,” and hopes he doesn’t look as confused as he feels. </p><p>Bond’s ears redden and he nods and says, “Yeah, ‘course. Uh, mate,” and then walks right out of the room with his own mug of tea clutched to his chest.</p><p>Q drinks the tea as he watches Bond go. Earl Grey with milk and two sugars, exactly correct.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p>
  <em> Thursday 9:34pm </em>
</p><p>“But did you <em> watch </em> him drink it?” Eve demands, leaning forward on Q’s couch. Her hair’s flopping across her face, and she ineffectually pushes some of it behind her ear as she says, “You still actually have no way of proving the tea entered his mouth!” </p><p>They’re sharing a cold bottle of orange soda, huddled in blankets on opposite sides of the couch. No straws, because Eve likes pretending she’s a lush and because Q doesn’t own drinking vessels that aren’t mugs. Eve is complaining about having a job. Q is complaining about not having one.</p><p>Well. Strictly speaking, Q is complaining about Bond.</p><p>“That—,” Q splutters, over the sound of the judges on his telly saying <em> Ready... set... </em> “That is <em> not </em> the most interesting part of that situation! Did you <em> miss </em> the part where I told you he <em> brought me tea</em>?”</p><p>“I’m just saying,” Eve says, “I’ve <em> never </em> seen him drink tea before. And I’ve seen him in the field! Anyway, as I was saying — ” </p><p>“He’s got a façade or something, for when he’s on the field,” Q grouses. He bats at her shoulder for her to hand over the bottle. “Give us a bit, will you?” </p><p>“Ah, ah,” chides Eve, deftly swapping the bottle into her other hand. “<em>I’m </em> dispensing advice, so <em> I </em> get the soda. You can be sulky on your end of the couch.” </p><p>Q slouches back in the couch cushions in a way he refuses to describe as <em> sulky</em>. Onscreen, one of the contestants frantically pushes two bits of dough together, muttering, <em> I’m not that confident in my technique, something’s not right here. </em></p><p>Eve takes a long drink, and coughs delicately. “Bond ran off right after he gave you the tea,” she points out. “You don’t have a monopoly on being the nervous one.” This doesn’t help. </p><p>Q always forgets how emotionally erratic orange soda makes him. “But what if he’s not interested anymore?” he whines. </p><p>Eve sets the nearly-empty soda bottle down on the coffee table with a <em> clack. </em> “Did you or did you not, yesterday, literally say to me <em> in the context of Bond </em>, that you’d rather know than not?” she demands. </p><p>“I—well, I,” Q protests. “I wouldn’t quite call that <em> in the context of Bond</em>, in, in the way <em> you’re </em> implying. I was complaining about the heedless destruction of my <em> work</em>!” He leans over to pick up the bottle. </p><p>Eve snags it from him before he can have a sip. “But mostly you were complaining about Bond not respecting what you do.” She drinks again, and purses her lips. “I’m right and you know it.” </p><p>Onscreen, the camera’s panning over one of the contestants saying, <em> I feel like we’re a herd of gazelles that’s being picked off one-by-one. </em>Q frowns. </p><p>“Q, love,” Eve chides, “it really wouldn’t kill you to give the man another chance.”</p><p>“I know<em>,</em>” says Q. “I bloody <em> know</em>.” </p><p>Eve eyes him over the lip of the bottle. “Then <em> why </em> are you sat on your couch on a Thursday night drinking sad orange soda instead of propositioning Bond?”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p><em> Friday </em> 7:23pm</p><p>It’s not that Q <em> isn’t interested </em> in propositioning Bond. Far from it. </p><p>Extremely far from it, given how distracted he’s been all day, worrying about how, or when, or if he’d be doing it because he wants to or just to prove a point. </p><p>R, a conference call playing in their headset so loud Q could hear the tinny sound, had walked into the breakroom for a snack and caught him staring woefully between the unplugged tea kettle and the door. Q had shrugged in a helpless sort of way, and they’d rolled their eyes at him but patted him on the shoulder in a comforting way on their way out. </p><p>Q’d brought them tea before the 3:00pm operations meeting as thanks, which made him think reflexively and immediately of Bond. And tea. And expressing gratitude. And then Q had stopped thinking about anything else for the rest of the day. </p><p>This is why Q manages to blurt out, “Bond! Thanks. For the tea yesterday,” when he happens upon the man in the waiting area outside the Level 2 elevators. His first instinct, admittedly, had been to turn around and walk in an away-from-Bond direction with his eyes on his phone.</p><p>Bond glances at him in a sharp, surprised way that sends shivers down Q’s spine.</p><p>Q continues gamely, “You ah, walked out of the breakroom before I could mention it.” </p><p>“Ta,” says Bond, face softening into pleased surprise. “I needed a caffeinated beverage to carry me through the unromantic monotony of off-mission rotations.” </p><p>When Q ends up ranting about this situation to Eve, he’ll be sure to mention that <em> he </em> wasn’t the one to introduce the idea of <em> romance </em> into the conversation. And that Bond really <em> had </em>drunk the tea.</p><p>“But I’m looking for dinner, now,” Bond adds. “I don’t know where to go around here anymore.”</p><p>“You’ve forgotten the location of every pub in London and the surrounding metropolis,” says Q disbelievingly, forgetting to be self-conscious.</p><p>Bond smiles at Q from three feet away. With his neat teeth and newly-accumulated scruff, it feels closer. “Something like that,” he agrees. Q abruptly remembers. </p><p>The up arrow next to the left-hand elevator blinks on, and Q turns to look at the numbers. The digits tick down as the elevator approaches:<em> 5 </em> … <em> 4 … 3 …  </em></p><p>“Place I usually go to got closed down while I was ah, indisposed,” Bond says eventually, as if <em> indisposed </em> is the accepted colloquial term for <em> faking my death</em>. Q’s back to looking at him somehow. Bond adds, “I figure you know somewhere nearby that’s good. Since you’re always somewhere around this building, it seems. Even when you’re not actually working here.”</p><p>“Bond, there’s no way you believe <em> I  </em>have good dining advice,” says Q, who calls handfuls of granola eaten in Mission Control ‘dinner’ more often than he’d like. In his defense, the mess service ends at 5pm with standard business hours. Q hardly works <em> standard  </em>hours: missions in Taiwan won’t reschedule themselves just because it’s four in the morning in England.  </p><p>There’s a chime, and the lift doors slide open. Q watches Bond’s eyes sweep over and back to Q’s face, watches Bond shift to center his weight on both feet. Q has footage of Bond doing this mid-mission: the coiled tension, the moment before the pounce. Now, with his hands at his sides and his gaze on Q’s face, he just seems expectant. </p><p>Q collects himself and says, “Just get a sandwich from the On the Go section at Tesco’s like the rest of us sorry bastards.” He’s poised to step into the elevator, but he doesn’t want to end this conversation himself. </p><p>“Ah,” teases Bond, “I was hoping I’d get such a glowing review out of you. In you go then,” he adds, nodding at the open lift, “I don’t want to keep you.” The soft purse of his mouth tells Q that’s a lie. “I’ll see you Monday.”</p><p>“Tea time in the breakroom again?” asks Q before he can stop himself, one foot in the elevator.</p><p>“Yeah,” says Bond, nodding. “Yeah. Might even stick around to drink it in there, this time.” </p><p>“I look forward to it,” Q admits, with a lot more composure than he’d expected from himself. </p><p>And then the lift doors close and the numbers tick back upward, instead of toward the main lobby, and Q realizes he’s a fucking idiot. Out of an instinct he isn’t keen on labeling, he hits the button for Level 2 again, and drums his hands against his thighs the rest of the way to Level 7 and back. </p><p>When the doors chime open again on Level 2, Bond’s still standing there, attention on the phone in his hands. </p><p>“Hey,” Q shouts. He’s got his index finger pressed against the <em> Door Open </em> button so hard the nail is going white. </p><p>Bond’s head jerks up. “Why’re you here again?”</p><p>“I,” says Q. He licks his bottom lip. “I’m not coming in to work tomorrow, because it’s the weekend. But. If you’re … still not sure where to go for dinner then, you should ask me again. About, ah, where to go. Maybe around 7 o’clock?” </p><p>The just-slapped look is back on Bond’s face again, but he’s already responding. “I’ll email you," Bond says, face serious but his tone light. "Then you’ll have something to look forward to in that inbox of yours.” </p><p>Q rolls his eyes and takes his hand off the button. “Funny, thanks.” </p><p>“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Bond calls, grinning now, and Q waves in return. </p><p>And then the lift doors slide shut, and behind them Q finds himself smiling. </p><p> </p><p>— </p><p>
  <em> Three and a half weeks later, 5:13pm </em>
</p><p>It’s not that Q’s spending <em>all </em> of his time sitting in the breakroom checking his email, now that Bond’s on another mission. It’s <em> not</em>. </p><p>It’s just — Bond’s off somewhere Q’s not allowed to know about, doing something Bond’s not supposed to talk about. And Bond had broken the news over lunch in the mess and called it a ‘business trip, Q, you know what it’s like working in <em> politics,</em>’ and Q had laughed and said ‘Hard work, I know’, but it had still stung. Q’s at the top of the MI6 ladder right now, but he’s still the definition of ‘hardly working’. </p><p>His laptop pings, sudden and startling in the omnipresent quiet of the breakroom in the evening. </p><p>Q tabs back into his inbox, fingers clattering over his keyboard. He’s only typed the password to his MI6 email once every half hour for the last three weeks, after all. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>To: quartermaster@internals.mi6.gov</p>
  <p>From: humanresources@mi6.gov</p>
  <p>Subject: Ticket Closing - Office Reassignment</p>
  <p>Hello [REDACTED],</p>
  <p>You have been assigned to Rm. 700-A. This is not a shared office. Belongings from your previous workspace will be made available in your new workspace 5-7 business days after your office assignment has been validated. To validate your office assignment, please visit the Human Resources front desk on Level 1.</p>
  <p>This ticket, #85216261828 regarding Promotion-Related Office Reassignment, will be <em> permanently </em> closed in three days. </p>
  <p>[...]</p>
</blockquote><p>Q flops back in his chair, his hands almost involuntarily covering his mouth. <em> Ticket Closing, </em>he reads again. </p><p>He’s got a job again. </p><p>He’s got responsibilities again. Something meaningful to do with his time again. </p><p>He’s got to go find out from his assistant what meetings he’s missed in the last month. Fuck, he’s got to find out if he even still <em> has </em> an assistant, <em> and </em> the details of the current 00 missions. Q knows Bond’s gone somewhere, of course, and eavesdropping on breakroom gossip with his headphones in and silent has taught him that 003 is in Shenzhen, but that’s hardly enough knowledge to <em> work </em> with. Oh, <em> and </em>this’ll be the first job with Bond since— </p><p>His laptop <em> pings </em> with another notification, and he clicks the email.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>To: quartermaster@internals.mi6.gov</p>
  <p>From: [REDACTED]</p>
  <p>Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: I Don’t Know What To Eat For Dinner &amp; It’s Nearly 7</p>
  <p>I’ll see you in 47 minutes for our meal date :D</p>
</blockquote><p>Q laughs, soft and sort of helplessly at his laptop screen. Oh, <em> oh</em>. Q’s never kept an email subject so long before, but it’s charming, to have the reminder of how this all started.</p><p>Something warm and bright bubbles up in Q’s chest, loosening some of the tension there as he leans forward to respond. </p><p>Q types, <em> You don’t have to email me every Wednesday and Sunday, it’s a routine now. We’ve </em> been <em> doing this for almost a month already. </em> Q frowns. He deletes that and types, <em> I think we’re both aware that this is a </em> standing <em> phone meal date, which means it’ll certainly continue. </em>It’s still too… chiding, perhaps. Dismissive. Too much of the uncertain whirlwind of his current state of mind seeping in. </p><p>He backspaces the whole thing until the message box is empty, and sits back in his chair, blowing out a breath through his teeth. </p><p>Then Q sits forward again to type, <em> If you call me from another rooftop I’ll bribe R to make your earpiece play classical music the entire flight home, James. See you in 42</em>, and hits send.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>THE ART THE ART THE ART THE ART!!!</p><p> </p><p>  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>but also, like i said, i have Thoughts about the making of this:</p><p>this has been five months in the making. five months that, quite frankly, felt like years. when i started it, i thought this would a cute and kind of nonsense piece about bond and q going through the HR wringer together, but then, it wasn't, but then it sort of was again. there was a moment, actually, a few weeks ago when i thought quite seriously about just throwing in the towel and admitting that this just wasn't a good time, that this piece just couldn't be what i'd hoped it to be. i spent a while thinking about emailing the mods back to just say 'thanks but no thanks, and also sorry,' but i'm glad i didn't.</p><p>i'm working on coming to terms with the fact that for art, 'perfection' just doesn't exist, it can't be defined. any piece of work an artist does will always be particular to the moment the art comes into being in their life. the same project done (or, in my case, started) twice will never turn out exactly the same. this fic, for me, has been an eerily powerful reminder of that.</p><p>i've spent many hours in the last few weeks and months of quarantine feeling more than a little bit aimless and lonely, with the sudden end of the semester not bringing about the usual kind of freedom and opportunity for social engagement. there's a particularly draining monotony, i've found, to existing in the same space day after day, when the backdrop to all your recent memories are the same four places. that whole bag of feelings ended up shaping this fic a lot more than i expected it to, and writing this fic helped me handle those feelings a lot better than i'd hoped.</p><p>so: please stay home, and please stay safe. i hope reading this brought some momentary lightness to your life. i hope this was a helpful reminder that there's community available, even now. thanks for reading. &lt;3</p><p>as always, i'm on tumblr <a href="https://hideyseek.tumblr.com/">@hideyseek</a>. come drop a line if you want some company~</p></blockquote></div></div>
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